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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27903349">in a land far away</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog'>peacefrog</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magicians (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A Smattering of Crack, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Parenthood, Puppets</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:01:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,116</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27903349</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Teddy was turning six years old. There was nothing in the world he loved more than stories.</p>
<p>OR </p>
<p>The one where Eliot loves his family and misses Margo at the mosaic.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Margo Hanson &amp; Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>79</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>in a land far away</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/snoopypez/gifts">snoopypez</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello and welcome to my third and final fic for round two of #NotAloneHere! This was written for the always lovely Jaime, who requested a fic inspired by my own twitter thread, which you can check out <a href="https://twitter.com/gruntsandpoetry/status/1270390464819142661">here</a> if you're interested in how this all came about. </p>
<p>Basically, what happens when Eliot makes hand puppets and misses Margo Hanson very much. Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Teddy was turning six years old. There was nothing in the world he loved more than stories.</p>
<p>His favorite was a version of Lord of the Rings Quentin had cobbled together from memory. He must have told it to their son a hundred times before it occurred to Eliot he could contribute more to story time than ogling Quentin’s hands while he spoke, or popping in to suggest when the Balrog should <i>actually be making an appearance, Quentin.</i></p>
<p>The first hand puppet Eliot made wasn’t very good. Less Elijah Wood, more sad beige sack with buttons for eyes and a smattering of yarn where his hair was meant to be. But slowly, over the weeks and months, something about the whole process began to click into place. Instead of looking at the puppets as toys, Eliot honed in on them with his bespoke tailor’s eye. And just like that, his sad sacks transformed into complex characters. He adorned them with ornate costumes, embroidered them with seed pearls and shining lengths of gold and silver thread. They had actual personalities and mostly recognizable faces. </p>
<p>The day Quentin began to erect the puppet theater out in the yard, Teddy was the happiest he’d been since Arielle's passing. Maybe the happiest Eliot had ever seen him.</p>
<p>It was hard to believe it sometimes, but the two of them were nailing the whole parenting thing. And now, though it seemed like only yesterday he was born, Teddy was turning six years old...</p>
<p>From where Eliot sat at the worktable, he had a perfect view of Quentin and Teddy in the yard. They were weaving wildflowers into crowns and laughing. Every now and then, Teddy would pluck up a stray blossom and tuck it into the braid that flowed down the center of Quentin’s back like a ladder. A tiny thread of longing unspooled in Eliot’s chest, quiet as a whisper. Tonight, in the dark, he’d pluck the flowers back out, as if from the earth, set them on their bedside table. Unweave Quentin’s braid with his wanting hands. Let Quentin’s hair down, wind it in his fingers. Press Quentin down onto the bed and kiss him, kiss him, kiss—</p>
<p>Scraps of flax linen left over from their summer clothes dotted the tabletop like confetti. Shades of blue and brown and red and green. A thick coil of alpaca yarn—remnants of the sweater he’d knitted Quentin two winters previous—was set off to one side. The perfect shade of chocolate brown to mimic her hair. A needle and thread and his hands and an afternoon overflowing with time. A perfect image of her, just as she’d been a decade ago, the very last time he’d set his eyes on Margo Hanson, frozen in the amber of his memory.</p>
<p>Teddy was turning six years old. It was time for him to learn a brand new story.</p>
<p>Eliot worked. He cut and stitched and embroidered and ached. His eyes wandering over to Quentin and Teddy every now and then. Two little pieces of his very own heart up and skipping around outside of his body. The arc of the sun steadily dripped closer to the line of the horizon. Eliot finished his first puppet and started in on a second, and after that a third. And before long his best friend from another life lay before him in triplicate. Her honeyed skin and long, dark hair. Her richly colored dresses. He’d adorned the first of the bunch with an embroidered patch over one of her eyes. Margo the Destroyer, fearsome and proud, a hero fit for the pages of any child’s favorite storybook. The second had a golden crown stitched like a halo around the circle of her head. High Queen Bambi, Eliot thought, long may her glory reign. The third and final puppet was Margo Hanson as Eliot had known her their first year together at Brakebills. His very best friend, his favorite magic girl. The Margo he had known before Fillory and crowns and quests had ripped them apart.</p>
<p>Eliot blinked. It was dinnertime. The sky was growing dark. Quentin was wrangling Teddy in the direction of the cottage, the two of them wearing colorful crowns dripping with lopsided flowers on their heads. Teddy clutched a third in one clumsy little hand, hoisting it high as a sail as he skipped toward Eliot at the table.</p>
<p>“Papa!” Teddy was practically hopping out of his shoes. “Papa, I made you a crown!”</p>
<p>Eliot covered the puppets with a square of cloth and swung his body around, straddling the bench he’d been sitting on for hours. His knees ached with the effort, but he did his best to not let it show on his face. He looked his son deep in his dark brown eyes. Dark brown eyes flecked with amber and gold. Quentin’s eyes exactly. The eyes that Eliot adored. “Well would you look at that,” he said, feigning surprise, looking at the crown and its wilting blooms like some holy thing. “Are we to dine like kings tonight, little love?”</p>
<p>Teddy nodded with such enthusiasm, it was like his neck had been fitted with a spring. Eliot raised his eyes to Quentin, suddenly at Teddy’s side. Radiant as Flora, blooms tumbling from his braid like drops of water. He offered Eliot a smirk that made heat flare up the column of his spine. Something unspoken passing between them for a breath. A mischievous little glint sparking in Quentin’s eyes.</p>
<p>“Well, then,” Eliot said, tamping down the fire in his belly, eyes skipping between Quentin and their son, “I think this calls for a ceremony. Becoming kings is something we should honor.” He kept his gaze locked firmly on Quentin. “At least that's what I've been told.”</p>
<p>“A coronation!” Teddy exclaimed, the word coming out like he was saying it for the very first time. All clunky and shining and new. “Like Aragorn!”</p>
<p>“That’s right,” Quentin said, touching the top of Teddy’s head. Eliot could see him biting at his lip, trying to keep the hysterics at bay. “So, um—I’m pretty sure this is the part where you kneel, El.”</p>
<p>Eliot’s heart thumped up into his throat. He watched Quentin for a very long time before turning his attention to Teddy. Standing up, dropping down to his aching knees, trying not to wince when they hit the ground. Teddy lifted the crown at once. All the tender impatience of a nearly-six-year-old spilling off of him in frantic waves. Quentin stopped him with a touch to the shoulder.</p>
<p>“So, um—help me out here, Teddy.” Quentin’s eyes were on Eliot’s. Eliot’s eyes were on his. “Would you say your Papa is more brave or merciful?”</p>
<p>Teddy grinned with his bottom lip held between his teeth, humming loudly, like he wanted to make sure his dads knew he was taking this very seriously. He looked to Quentin, to Eliot, back to Quentin again. “Well,” he said finally. “I would say Papa is brave. Because…” He furrowed his brows. He looked so much like Quentin it was stupid, and Eliot very much wanted to sob about it. “Because… when I’m afraid of the dark he sings to me and then I’m—I’m not afraid.”</p>
<p>“Well,” Quentin said with an easy shrug of his shoulders. “That settles it. Go on, Teddy, lift Papa’s crown as high as you can.”</p>
<p>Eliot’s palms were actually sweating, his chest quavering when he drew a breath. Jesus. Whatever lingering sadness he’d been feeling about Margo, in that moment it was entirely gone. There was only his family. Eliot. Quentin. Their son.</p>
<p>“Um,” Teddy said, clutching the crown of flowers high above his head, a few blooms dropping off and landing at his feet. “Papa is brave and he’s also tall. So he should be High King.”</p>
<p>A laugh stuttered out of Quentin’s mouth. “I can’t argue with that logic,” he said. “So, um—I guess this means we hereby dub thee… High King Papa the Brave and Tall.”</p>
<p>Teddy plopped the crown on Eliot’s head. Another flower fell off and landed in the open cup of Eliot’s palm. He clutched it like a relic as Teddy started dancing around. Singing off-key about High King Papa, tugging at Quentin’s shirt, trying to pull him in the direction of the door. “Daddy,” he said. “Daddy we need to make a throne now. Three thrones. One for you, one for Papa, and one for me. Can we, can we please—”</p>
<p>Eliot felt like he’d been stunned straight through with love. An arrow lancing his heart. Like he was bleeding out all over the ground. He could hardly focus on what Quentin was saying. Something something <i>not now it’s time to eat it’s getting dark don’t look at me like that maybe for your birthday okay but you have to—Teddy I’m serious we have to go inside take your shoes off please don’t drag dirt all over the floor again go wash your hands don’t—</i></p>
<p>He hardly registered standing, but suddenly Eliot was back on the bench, straddling the width of it, and Teddy was gone. He was still clutching the flower that had tumbled from his crown. Quentin sat down across from him, put a hand on Eliot’s knee.</p>
<p>“Hey,” he said. “Are you okay?”</p>
<p>Eliot blinked, turned his head, set the flower on the table. He flipped back the square of cloth and set his eyes on the puppets underneath, the sight of them there knocking him back to reality at once. “Yeah, I—” He pushed out a breathy laugh. “I’m perfect. Jesus, that kid.”</p>
<p>Quentin smirked. “I know.”</p>
<p>“And his father...” Eliot leaned in, taking Quentin by the nape. “If I didn’t know better I’d say he was trying to turn me into a sentimental sap.”</p>
<p>Quentin pressed closer, kissed the corner of Eliot’s mouth. “Looks like he already beat me to it,” he said, gesturing to the puppets on the tabletop. “Are those… all Margo?”</p>
<p>Eliot straightened his back, pulse points thrumming in his neck and wrists. “Yeah, uh—I just thought. For his birthday. Teddy might like a new story.”</p>
<p>Quentin quirked a brow. “A story starring Margo Hanson times three?”</p>
<p>Eliot swallowed down a pulse of something bitter. Longing, guilt, the shadow of dread. He shook his head and smiled. “I think we can both agree our darling Bambi has far too much personality to be contained inside a single puppet.”</p>
<p>Quentin touched Brakebills Margo in her bright pink dress. “What’s the story about?”</p>
<p>Eliot watched Quentin’s finger trace the circle of her face with the pad of his finger. “I haven’t decided yet.”</p>
<p>Quentin narrowed his eyes in Eliot’s direction. “You do know his birthday is tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“Now, Quentin...” Eliot thumbed at Quentin’s blood-warm cheek. “You know how much improv practice I had in undergrad.”</p>
<p>Quentin hummed, leaned in, kissed Eliot on the neck. “Well,” he whispered, making Eliot shiver, “how about you come inside and improv up a little dinner with me so we can feed our son.”</p>
<p><i>Our son. Our son.</i> Eliot didn’t think he’d ever get tired of hearing those words. It was like a kick to the heart. He could hardly believe it, six years on. He was a father. And more miraculously still, he hadn’t managed to fuck it up. Somehow, somehow. Their child would never know the hurt of the word <i>father</i> souring on his tongue. For Teddy, <i>father</i> would be a hearth and a home.</p>
<p>Eliot turned his head, let his fingers skim along each of the puppets, then turned back to Quentin with a smile. “Go on, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ll be right behind you.”</p>
<p>Quentin smiled softly, took Eliot by the front of his shirt, pulled him in for a deep, languid kiss. All tongue and ache. A little nip of teeth. A promise of things to come in the dark. He pulled away after a long moment, pressed a kiss to Eliot’s cheek, and rose to his feet without a word. Eliot watched him go, watched him open the door and disappear inside the cottage, desire stirring low in his gut.</p>
<p>After Quentin had gone, Eliot took his time carefully wrapping his three little Margos in a square of dark blue linen, securing it with a length of yarn. Tying it off with a bow. Clearing the worktable after he was finished, tucking his materials neatly away. </p>
<p>He shut his eyes, and saw her face, and opened his eyes again. She wasn’t there, but he was home. Somehow. The stars were peeking out. The sky was nearly dark.</p>
<p>Everything in its place, Eliot took his little bundle of Margo, clutched it to his chest for one long, silent instant. Took a breath. Followed the trail of Quentin’s warmth beyond the safety of the cottage door.</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>It was fully dark beyond the windows, but still early enough that Eliot wasn’t tired. Teddy was fast asleep in his own little bed in his own little corner of the cottage. Three crowns of flowers were busy wilting on the kitchen table. A still and a calm had settled over their little plot of land. Twin sickles of moonlight watched from overhead like closing eyes. </p>
<p>Quentin perched on the side of their bed, working open the ties of his shirt. Eliot stood at a distance, watching. Hunger sparking in wild flickers at the base of his spine. Like his vertebrae were made of chips of flint. The two of them were older now, settling well into their mid-thirties, with their creaking knees and backs that seemed to ache a little more with each passing season. Not to mention a nearly-six-year-old running them ragged all during the day. Endless hours spent working on the mosaic, baking in the sun. The first whispers of old age snagging in their fingers. Still—it did nothing to stem the desire Eliot felt every time he set his eyes on Quentin like this.</p>
<p>Quentin smiled, a pretty pink blush dappling his cheeks. He shrugged the shirt from his shoulders and set it aside. “What are you looking at?”</p>
<p>Eliot took a single step forward. “Only the most beautiful man that’s ever allowed me the pleasure of sharing his bed.”</p>
<p>Quentin ducked his head, flipped his braid over his shoulder, began the delicate task of plucking so many wilted flowers out. “Shut up.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you dare,” Eliot said, taking another step, gesturing to Quentin’s braid. “Don’t. Let me…”</p>
<p>Quentin pulled his hands away at once, eyes tracking Eliot as he made his way over to the bed. And sat down. Their bodies curving together like the tips of Fillory’s ever-watching moons. Eliot kissed Quentin’s bare shoulder, then started pulling flowers up. One-by-one. White, pink, lilac, yellow. Making a tiny bouquet on their bedside table. Quentin was silent, eyes sweeping over Eliot’s face as he worked. Soft and pliant and warm.</p>
<p>The flowers gone, Eliot removed the tie from the end of Quentin’s braid, began unweaving his soft brown hair. An act of eager worship, the way a penitent prays.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Quentin said, drawing Eliot’s eyes from his own nimble fingers. “Hi.”</p>
<p>“Hi yourself,” Eliot smirked, gaze flicking to the bow of Quentin’s tempting mouth. “I’m almost finished.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” Quentin said very softly. “Do you, um—do you wanna talk about it?”</p>
<p>Eliot slipped his fingers between the strands of Quentin’s braid, tugging at them gently. Watching as they tumbled and flowed apart. “Do I wanna talk about what?”</p>
<p>“Um—” Quentin’s posture stiffened for a fraction of a second. “The puppets. Or, I guess… Margo? I, uh—I know you miss her.”</p>
<p>Eliot steadily worked his way toward the nape of Quentin’s neck. “Um, yeah… I.” He pulled the final strands of Quentin’s hair free, ruffled it with his fingers. Watched as the hair flowed around Quentin’s shoulders like water, still bearing the wavy afterimage of the braid. “God, you’re beautiful.”</p>
<p>“El.” Quentin thumbed at Eliot’s cheek. “I’m serious. It’s okay.”</p>
<p>A wrecking ball of misery battered Eliot’s heart for one hard instant. He shoved it down, locked it away. “Not right now,” he said firmly, meeting Quentin’s gaze. Fingers in Quentin’s hair, pressing closer, ghosting their mouths together. “I don’t wanna talk about that right now.”</p>
<p>Quentin swallowed. “Okay,” he said. “Um—what do you wanna talk about?”</p>
<p>Eliot hummed, kissed Quentin on the mouth. “Well,” he said, “would you like to hear what’s about to happen to you, sweetheart?”</p>
<p>Eliot felt the exact moment the shudder ripped through Quentin’s body. “Yeah, uh—yeah. That sounds… really… yeah…”</p>
<p>“It does sound really...” Eliot kissed him again, and Quentin crawled up into his lap, straddling Eliot’s thighs. “There you are. Hi baby…”</p>
<p>“Hi.” Quentin’s voice ached out of him. He tugged at the front of Eliot’s shirt. “Take this off.”</p>
<p>“I will. Don’t worry.” Eliot sucked a kiss into the center of Quentin’s throat, hands groping at the curve of his ass through his pants. “But first… I owe you a story, hm?”</p>
<p>“Maybe...” Quentin gasped, pawing at Eliot’s shoulders. “Maybe you do…”</p>
<p>Eliot laughed against Quentin’s neck. “So. Let’s see. Once upon a time...” He kissed the line of Quentin’s jaw, nuzzling into him softly. “In the magical land of Fillory. Eliot Waugh was preparing to rend the rest of Quentin Coldwater’s clothes to shreds and press kisses all over his naked body.”</p>
<p>“This is my favorite story,” Quentin said, voice well on its way to being thoroughly ruined. “How did you know?”</p>
<p>Eliot tugged Quentin back by the hair, kissed him on the lips, and smiled. “Improv practice,” he said, every last drop of blood in his body rushing down between his legs. “Baby. Oh, baby. I’m gonna lay you down in this bed and…” He kissed Quentin on the slope of his cheek. “And suck your dick.”</p>
<p>Quentin pressed closer. His chest was hot as embers. Eliot could feel the pounding of his heart. “That’s—that’s a really good start.”</p>
<p>Eliot sighed. “I agree,” he said. “And then… baby. My love. Oh, I’m gonna spread your legs and—” His fingers grazed along the dip of Quentin’s spine. “I’m gonna eat your ass until you’re crying for it. Begging...”</p>
<p>Quentin knocked their foreheads together. “This is the best story. The best…”</p>
<p>Eliot kissed Quentin deeply, all fiery tongues and teeth. He broke away, wound his fingers in Quentin’s long hair. “And then do you know what I’m gonna do?” He smiled, took a breath. “I’m gonna fuck you, darling. Gonna fuck you deep and hard and slow.”</p>
<p>Quentin’s fingertips pressed into Eliot’s back like points of light. “Don’t tease me,” he breathed. “It’s been days. I want it now. Take off your clothes.”</p>
<p>Eliot laughed, and kissed Quentin on the tip of his nose, his cheek, his chin. And flipped him over onto the bed. And settled between the V of his thighs. And let the fire they’d been stoking flare into a five alarm blaze.</p>
<p>And burn and burn and burn...</p>
<p>What came after was unhurried. Stripping each other bare and tangling together. Cries of pleasure muffled by a hand, a pillow. Mouths everywhere, fingers seeking. Slick and slow and perfect. For what seemed like hours and days. Until their aching bodies were entirely spent.</p>
<p>Eliot curled around Quentin in the aftermath, head on his chest, warm and sated, limbs heavy, mind already half in the muddled waters of a dream. The steady drumming of Quentin’s precious, living heart pounding in his ears like a song.</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>It was the middle of the afternoon on Teddy’s birthday. Teddy was six years old.</p>
<p>The sun pinned itself like a spotlight high above their heads. Quentin and Teddy were sitting in the grass, waiting, having a conversation Eliot couldn’t make out from behind the drawn curtain of the puppet theater. That morning, he’d pulled himself out of bed before dawn. Snuck out of the cottage, sat down at the worktable with his scraps of fabric. His needle and his thread. Before it was time for breakfast to be served, another puppet had come to life under his hands. This one in the perfect likeness of his son.</p>
<p>Teddy was six years old. Eliot would tell him a brand new story.</p>
<p>His palms were sweating as he knelt behind the curtain in the grass. It was probably absurdly embarrassing to be nervous about putting on a puppet show for a six-year-old, but he wanted to get this right. Needed to. Because the thing was—</p>
<p>The thing was.</p>
<p>Eliot missed Margo so much sometimes it hurt to breathe.</p>
<p>He and Quentin talked about it, every now and then. What would happen if their life at the mosaic were to suddenly come to an end. Like it was only a matter of time. Only a matter of clicking one last piece of the puzzle into place. Like it wasn’t an impossible thing. <i>When we finish here—finally—when we finish—when we get back home—when we have the third key—when it’s over—when it’s done—when we see our friends again—it’s going to be—I bet hardly any time has passed back home—I bet when we get back—I bet—I just know—when we see them all again—</i></p>
<p>The one thing they never talked about was the reality. The odds of actually finishing the puzzle were so infinitesimal, so improbable—there were more possible combinations to their mosaic than either of them had hours left to give. They could live a hundred lifetimes—a thousand. Eliot understood perfectly what that meant. He knew it in his bones. The chances of ever seeing their friends again—of ever seeing Margo—</p>
<p>He’d made peace with it years ago. And it wasn’t like Eliot was unhappy. It wasn’t like he was—</p>
<p>He was so happy with Quentin and Teddy, some days it was like he was trapped in a dream. Like at any second he was going to wake in his bed at Castle Whitespire, or back at Brakebills in the Physical Kids’ Cottage. The memory of the precious little child he’d made up for himself and Quentin already fading, the other side of his bed empty and cold...</p>
<p>And Eliot didn’t want—</p>
<p>He didn’t want—</p>
<p>The thing was.</p>
<p>It was just that—</p>
<p>Eliot couldn’t bear the thought of their life at the mosaic coming to a close.</p>
<p>Eliot was happy. Eliot didn’t want to go.</p>
<p>Eliot missed Margo so much sometimes it hurt to breathe.</p>
<p>Over the years, he’d learned that feelings can be tricky like that. That many things can be true all at once.</p>
<p>Eliot was thirty-five years old. He had a family and a son. He knew he was never going to see Margo Hanson again. But her name could still live on in a story.</p>
<p>Act one, scene one. Eliot threw open the curtain on the miniature stage. Brakebills Margo had been slipped over his right hand. A dozen stage props stood at the ready, his cast of characters scattered around his knees like chaotic stars. Raucous heart working like a piston underneath his ribs. Quentin and Teddy applauded and smiled from where they sat on the grass. Time itself seemed to still, and stop, and wait for him to begin.</p>
<p>Eliot opened his mouth. Drew a breath. Pushed it out.</p>
<p>“Once upon a time,” he said, projecting his voice from beyond the stage and out over the lawn, “in the faraway land of Los Angeles, an extraordinary magic girl was born…”</p>
<p>Eliot’s story didn’t make narrative sense, but Teddy was instantly enthralled by the action. Six-year-olds were easy like that. </p>
<p>Miniature Margo went to Brakebills where she aced her entrance exam. An effortless master magician from the jump. Her first day of class was marked by a ferocious dragon swooping down from the clouds, threatening the lives of the lesser magicians on campus. At the sight of the dragon puppet Teddy giggled and bounced. It had always been one of his favorites.</p>
<p>Margo slayed the dragon with an easy tut of her elegant hand, was instantly promoted from student to dean. </p>
<p>She went to Fillory some time after that, was greeted by the bravest knight known to all in the land. Sir Theodore Rupert Coldwater-Waugh. He told Margo she could just call him Teddy.</p>
<p>They set out on a quest together. Sailing the high seas with talking bears, saving their tiny ship from a dozen sea monsters or more. Doing some really cool magic only Margo Hanson could do. They freed the people of the Outer Islands from a curse only the quickest, most skilled magicians in the multiverse could ever hope to break. It was easier than breathing for Margo. She was just very good at magic like that.</p>
<p>They were ushered to Castle Whitespire at once where they were crowned High King and High Queen. A new era of peace settled over the land.</p>
<p>And then a dark cloud rolled in. High Queen Margo was locked in a very high, very impenetrable tower for some narrative reason yet to be determined, but High King Teddy never once feared for her safety. She freed herself with a blink of her magical eyes. She swooped out of the tower on wings made of gold. High King Teddy flew alongside her on his loyal Hippogriff. All the people of Fillory cheered for their benevolent King and Queen. They were very good at flying and doing all sorts of cool-looking aerial tricks too.</p>
<p>She saved Fillory from the stomping feet of a giant, and slayed another dragon that was very different from the first even if the puppet looked the same. She took down the Balrog and tossed the One Ring into Mount Doom. Elijah Wood was so grateful, he asked for her hand in marriage right then, but High Queen Margo could never accept. She was too busy lifting Thor’s hammer and pulling swords from stones to even think of settling down.</p>
<p>Every day before dinner, High Queen Margo the Destroyer replenished the wellspring with her very own magic. Alongside High King Teddy the Bravest, she lived happily ever after indeed.</p>
<p>The show concluded with an uproarious applause from his audience of two. Eliot’s chest felt tight enough to burst. His heart pumping confetti, his lungs like two balloons. </p>
<p>He tossed his puppets down and met Teddy and Quentin out on the grass. Fell to his knees, folded Teddy in his arms, pressing kisses into his hair. “Did you like your new story, my love?”</p>
<p>Teddy pulled back, started bouncing around, clapping and nodding his head. Running in circles, babbling about dragons and kings and queens.</p>
<p>Eliot laughed, fell down onto his back in the grass. Reached for Quentin, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “So, uh…” He turned on his side when Quentin joined him, eyes flitting over to Teddy, who had already snatched up two of the puppets and had them flopping over his hands. “This is the part where I ask my harshest critic to take it easy on me.”</p>
<p>A soft laugh rumbled out of Quentin’s chest. “Well,” he said. “It was, um—it was good. I mean, it—it didn’t make very much narrative sense. And you definitely took... some liberties. I mean Margo is a good magician, don't get me wrong, but next time you can probably—”</p>
<p>Eliot pressed a hand to Quentin’s chest. “Baby.”</p>
<p>“Sorry.” Quentin’s mouth quirked up. “Teddy loved it. He said he wants you to make him an eyepatch so he can be High King Teddy the Destroyer.”</p>
<p>Eliot laughed until his belly ached, setting his eyes on Teddy again. He was sitting by the puppet theater with all three Margos in his lap, tracing his fingers along the delicate stitching. With all the wonder of a six-year-old. Like he could hardly believe things as simple as thread and linen could exist. The Teddy puppet was beside him in the grass. He wrapped his little hand around it and laughed.</p>
<p>Quentin crossed the short distance between their bodies, rested his head on Eliot’s chest. “He’s going to idolize her now, you know,” he said with a contented little sigh. “When we get back, and he meets aunt High Queen Margo. If I had met the Chatwins at his age I—I would have flipped my shit.”</p>
<p>“Yeah...” Eliot breathed, happy and sad all at once. Pressing a kiss to Quentin’s head. Watching as Teddy hopped to his feet and disappeared behind the stage. “Yeah, if I know Bambi… she’s gonna love the hell out of our kid.”</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>That night, after Eliot scooped Teddy up from the floor where he’d finally crashed and deposited him into his bed, he padded across the cottage to the room he shared with Quentin, crawled under the covers beside him in the dark. Quentin turned his back, and Eliot pressed all along the curves of him from behind. The heat of his bare flesh scorching Eliot clean through.</p>
<p>He kissed Quentin’s shoulder, nosed along the slope of his neck. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said very softly. “Last night. You, uh—you were right. I do miss her. Margo.”</p>
<p>Quentin threaded their fingers together under the covers. “El…”</p>
<p>“But I just—let me say this, Q. I just need to say...” Eliot pressed a kiss just behind Quentin’s ear. The little fire of him burning, burning. “I want you to know I wouldn’t trade this. What we have. I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t trade this for going back if—”</p>
<p>“Eliot.”</p>
<p>“I just need you to know that, okay?” Eliot tugged Quentin closer, couldn’t bear to have a single sliver of space between their bodies now. He wanted Quentin touching him everywhere. “I need you to know that I’m happy here with you. Quentin, I—you know how much I—”</p>
<p>“I know.” Quentin went stiff for a long moment, then turned in Eliot’s arms, wrapped himself around Eliot’s middle, buried his face in the hollow of Eliot’s throat. “Eliot. I know.”</p>
<p>“Baby,” Eliot breathed, pressing his fingers into Quentin’s back and kissing the top of his head. “Thank you for making such a wonderful tiny person for us.”</p>
<p>Eliot could feel Quentin’s mouth shaping into a smile against his neck. “Thank you for being such a wonderful dad,” he said, turning his face upward and kissing Eliot on the mouth. “You’re his favorite person, you know.”</p>
<p>Eliot smiled, kissed Quentin on the brow. “I probably was,” he said, tucking Quentin up under his chin with a sigh. “Until he learned about aunt Margo the Destroyer.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Quentin said. Eliot could feel the laughter rolling through him and dying away. “She really is the coolest.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have decided to not call this canon divergence. There is absolutely nothing canon can do to prove this isn't exactly what happened. Thank you all for reading. Comments very much appreciated as always. I adore you all. 💖</p></blockquote></div></div>
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